The Odd Collide
by The Moonlily
Summary: She saw not a king, not a grim and cold man, or a drunken ruffian. Instead, she perceived a pair of eyes more sincere, more genuine, more vivacious than any other eyes she had ever beheld in her life.


**Title:** The Odd Collide

 **Rating:** T

 **Pairings:** Éomer/Lothíriel

 **Genre:** Romance/Drama

 **Summary:** She saw not a king, not a grim and cold man, or a drunken ruffian. Instead, she perceived a pair of eyes more sincere, more genuine, more vivacious than any other eyes she had ever beheld in her life.

 **Disclaimer:** The Lord of The Rings is the property of J. R. R. Tolkien and his estate. This is a work of fanfiction, written for the enjoyment of myself and others. No financial profit is made by writing this.

 **Author's Note:** You know me and my sudden mad spurts of inspiration. This is one of those things, and I'm happy to introduce you something new as far as my writing goes. This is essentially a story of how Lothíriel met Éomer, and perhaps this time it's a bit different than my previous writings. At any rate, I hope you will enjoy!

* * *

 _Minas Tirith, the night after the Battle of Pelennor Fields, 3019 Third Age_

She first saw him in the dim of the weary evening when the battle was over.

Not that Princess Lothíriel had come for the horselord precisely; the messenger rushing to the Houses of Healing had just said Prince Imrahil her father was on his way to the Citadel, and he wished to see her before attending to the urgent matters, of which there were many even after the enemy's forces had been defeated. Relieved to the point of tears, she was tempted to just drop everything at hand and run to meet her sire, but being left in charge of the welfare of the wounded and what few civilians remained in the city, she could not leave without making sure things would run smoothly while she was gone to welcome back her father.

So empty was the city, and so full were the hands of the healers, that it was her own handmaiden she left in charge. There was no one else to turn to, and Bainiel had been at her side through the nightmarish hours of the battle – the maid knew what to do, the amount of supplies and foodstuffs, how much there were injured men and what were their needs, and at any rate the night had stripped them all of their pretences and titles. Neither of them were healers, but that had not mattered during the long hours of the night. There were plenty of mouths to feed, frightened minds to soothe, hands to hold, questions to be asked, and messages to be sent among a thousand other things that now seemed more like a dream.

And so, once Lothíriel had undone her filthy apron and her stained cap, she had hurried to meet her father... silently thankful for this one chance of escaping the neverending moaning and crying of the wounded, though she was also guilty for feeling relieved. After all, what right did she have to complain?

The Court of the Fountain was dark as the evening's shadows, but someone had found time to ignite some torches to give light to the place. There reigned quiet, unlike anything she had ever felt before, as though the very world was holding its breath in dread of what was yet to come. Far below the Citadel spread the fields of Pelennor, but in this late hour she did not see much of the ruin of war. After the night and the day she had behind her, she was sure it would not have looked like anything special.

Then at last her father appeared from the shadows of this sorrowful evening and she could read the weariness in his frame. His shoulders, usually so proudly held, were slumping. The blue and silver of his raiment were barely recognisable under all the blood and grime. His armour was dented and scratched, and he seemed to have lost his helmet. Even so, at the sight of his only daughter, a smile dawned on his fatigued face.

"Father!" Lothíriel called out, flying into the arms of her sire. Though she too was filthy and weary, her relief for knowing he had survived the battle gave her wings. When she reached him, a small sob broke away from her lips, and it didn't matter at all that the hold of his arms about her was nearly bruisingly tight.

"You're all right?" she mumbled in a shaky voice, needing to ask this question though she did not see any bodily harm on him.

"I'm fine, daughter. I'm fine", he mumbled softly.

"And my brothers?" she wanted to know, though she also dreaded his answer. She had not seen their faces among the wounded, but so many lay dead on the fields, and surely their family could not be so lucky as to remain untouched by this horrible war?

"They are unscathed, too. I sent them to our house, where they will be resting if they know what is good for them", Father said, making her sob in relief once more. _Thank you, Elbereth, for guarding them through this tempest!_

"You have managed through the night?" he then asked for his part, pulling back slightly so that he could look at her properly.

"Yes. Don't worry about it. Everything is under control", she said and smiled, though she didn't know how she could even do that. Uncle Denethor was gone, her cousin Faramir might follow him soon, all the world was at the edge of plunging into ruin, and she, the young princess from the city by the sea had been left in charge of caring for civilians and the wounded... life asked not and cared not whether one was ready. In the end, she had managed.

"Good. We will talk later. Go and get some rest, my dear – you look exhausted", said Father, and she knew he had to go. Though the battle was over, the night was everything but, and his suggestion was not one she could follow any time soon. Still, she would not have wanted to let him leave, for she'd have wanted to hear everything that had happened, and if it were true that the standard bearing the sign of the White Tree had been seen on the battlefield, or that a maiden of Rohan had slain the Witch-king...

These questions died on her lips, for her eyes fell on _him._

He had arrived with Father, but so focused she had been on her sire that she had not noticed him until now. He was leading a great grey warhorse, the like she had never seen before. Even Father's knights did not ride steeds of such stature and might, and she immediately knew she was looking at a Rohirric horse. But no matter how impressive this animal was, her eyes lingered on him only for a moment, because then her gaze was drawn to the man holding him by the reins.

He was absolutely filthy from head to toe, even more so than her father. And Elbereth, was there a lot of man to be dirty! With some wonder, Lothíriel saw this Rider was even taller than the men of her family – no small thing, as her father and brothers were among the tallest of the men of Gondor. His tangled hair, glued against his head by sweat and grime, seemed almost black in this light. Whether he was blond or not, as was the fashion of his people, could not be even guessed at the moment. His beard was long and unkempt and on his face there were stains of Eru knew what. Judging by the looks of his armour he had swam waist-deep in orc blood and worse things, and one shoulder plate looked like it was held on its place by mere use at this point. The man was a loathsome sight, but not because he was covered in filth. What did aggravate her was his expression: stern, grim, unfriendly and foul, and it did not soften in the slightest when his gaze came across her. Rather, to her it seemed he looked even more aversive as he met her eyes, not at all the way a noble lord would regard a lady of high birth. Yes, her hands and clothes might be covered in sweat and blood, but surely the fact she was conversing with Father would be enough of a hint?

Yet even as displeasure and offence filled her, she tried to remember this man had ridden all the way here to risk his life, he had fought for Gondor, and participated in saving the realms of Men... but the cold steel of his dark eyes made it impossible to feel for him.

Then, almost as soon as she had noticed this Rider, he walked past Lothíriel and her father, striding heavily but swiftly. She thought a deadly warship might move in such a way, looking one moment too ponderous to make a sudden movement, and falling on its prey on the very next.

"Who was that, Father?" Lothíriel asked, her voice full of slightly startled wonder. No matter how unpleasant he seemed, she knew she had not just beheld an ordinary rider.

Her father let out a soft sigh. By the look on his face she knew some dark thought was on him, and she shivered.

"That, my daughter, is the new King of Rohan."

* * *

 _Minas Tirith, August 3019_

When the door pressed close behind her, Lothíriel was still trying to regain her breath.

 _Running is not lady-like,_ she could practically hear her aunt scolding her, _and least of all in the Citadel of Minas Tirith!_

Well, it all did seem silly even now, but as she leant her back against the door, furiously attempting to slow down her gasps while listening to sounds from the hallway, she only felt relief. Maybe she had managed to escape him now... though being such a persistent man, Lord Bellon would find her again some time soon.

A young lord of noble line, recently come to his inheritance in Lebennin after his father had died on the fields of Pelennor, Bellon seemed quite determined to find a wife. Well, in his world he had _already_ found her, and now it was just a matter of persuading her. Only, Lothíriel was not quite as enthusiastic about his brilliant idea. She was not going to marry a man she barely knew, not to mention she had little interest in a husband who did not even listen to her. However, though she had already made her stance as clear as it possibly was in polite terms, Bellon just would not give up. This early morning, when she had been to the Citadel to return some books she had borrowed from the royal library, she had come across the young lord once more.

How had it come to this? she had to wonder. It wasn't like noble ladies were in in high demand at this time. Rather, it was the other way around, what with all the young lives that had perished in the War of the Ring. But even as she thought of it, Lothíriel could not deny seeing the reasons for her current trouble with not just Lord Bellon but actually several more marriage proposals. During the short time he had ruled, King Elessar had already made it clear how much he valued her father and cousin both as friends and lieutenants – they were in his counsels and so held significant positions in the realm. And she, as the only young and unmarried kinswoman to some of the most powerful men in the land was the easiest way to gain influence and wealth in Gondor's entirely new political situation. In part, it was her own fault too: among the tales of heroism that had come from the Battle of Pelennor fields she was only a footnote, but surprisingly many people appeared to have heard how she had lead the civilians and healers, making sure the defenders of the city had shelter and food, organising housing for those fleeing from lower levels of the city, and holding them together even as the battle had raged outside the walls of the city. Apparently it was less significant when she tried to say that there simply hadn't been anyone else, seeing her uncle and cousins had no living wives.

Lord Bellon had paid careful heed to all that (except for her estimation of her own importance), and so ever since the king's return he had been following her footsteps, as persistent as though he was her shadow. During that time she had come up with plenty of excuses, but it was increasingly hard to come up with a decent reason why she didn't have time to listen to his latest proposal. Uncertain of how to get rid of him, but knowing her words would do little to drive away the eager young man, Lothíriel had just picked up her skirts and made her escape. Yes, it was ridiculous and embarrassing, but she was running out of ideas, and it was too early in the morning to come up with a better plan. It helped that she knew the Citadel better than her own pockets: as a child, she had often explored the great halls and shadowy corners of this mighty dwelling of kings. Uncle Denethor had never rued her for it, but instead he had watched her with benevolent eyes as she ran about in her games.

As a result, she knew most of the rooms in the King's House... except not the one she was in now. She had picked the door at random and just dashed in, but now as she looked about herself, the Princess of Dol Amroth had not the slightest idea of what this chamber was and if anyone lived there.

It was a spacious room and airy, with great windows looking over the city. Intricate hangings covered the walls, richly depicting scenes both from great tales and ordinary events. The furnishings were made of warm brown wood, and each piece showed the skill of a master carpenter. The room was very neat and its air smelt of flowers, there was space for entertaining guests, and even a door leading to a balcony. Though sea-kings had lovingly built many beautiful places in their cities, this place was especially charming. Quietly Lothíriel thought a king might have resided here comfortably.

She had entirely forgotten about Lord Bellon by now. Instead, she was curious to explore these chambers she had never seen before, and, judging by how her noisy arrival had not caused anyone to make an appearance, it was probably fine to take a quick look around.

After wandering about and admiring the first room for a while, she headed for the next door. Now a brief thought of Lord Bellon entered her mind and she bit her lip. Perhaps he was still out looking for her, and she should stay here for a little while more? It was stupid and craven to hide like this, but... well. The next time she saw him, she would be very clear, and very strong-worded. If the young lord did not comprehend, she would leave the matter to her brothers.

Satisfied with this resolution, she opened the door... or perhaps it was just by some bizarre twist of fate that she did. Afterwards, she could never say for sure.

Inside the second chamber, she found the same beautiful decoration as before and a long moment she spent gazing about: the drawers, the table, the windows, the armour stand holding many pieces of a man's gear, the bed with sheets turned over... and there, in the four-poster bed, lay a tall, sleeping, _naked_ man.

He lay on his stomach, his thick warrior's arms disappearing under a pillow. His long golden hair was a tangled mess, hiding most of his face. The plane of his shoulders and back were broad, as though he had been built to bear great burdens; the strong muscles of his thighs also seemed to testify of this. Though he was a rider by trade, his legs were long enough for lethal sprints – though she had to wonder if he was capable of running fast with all the gear piled on his armour stand. Lothíriel's mouth ran dry and for an tiny moment all she could think of was how his bare skin was not the clear and fair kind she saw whenever she looked at her brothers. Rather, it seemed to somehow echo the warm glow of his golden hair.

"Oh, Elbereth", she blurted out in a dangerously loud voice, and the damage was done before she even had time to realise it.

The man had been sleeping soundly until now, but her voice startled him awake in less than seconds. He moved so fast she nearly jumped back, and when he sat up on his knees, he was holding a dagger in one of his hands. It was small enough to hide in a place like under the pillow, but doubtlessly a very dangerous weapon in the hands of a man who was so easily alarmed from what had looked like deep sleep. As Lothíriel stared at the gleaming blade of the dagger, she gave only moment's consideration to the fact he actually slept armed. Meanwhile, before her eyes got that far and her embarrassment deepened, he had the modesty of pulling the edge of sheet to cover himself.

And, as something so outrageous could only happen to her, Lothíriel felt a sinking sensation when she recognised him as no one else than King Éomer of Rohan.

"What in the name of Béma are you doing here?" he demanded to know, his voice a hoarse bark as he stared at her, and his dagger was still between them like he was still not sure if he should attack or not. She had a feeling he might even have forgotten about it.

"I was – was just – I didn't think– he tried – I mean -" she stammered in a disjointed blather of words, though suddenly it was difficult to even remember why she should be doing something as stupid as snooping around in the guest chambers of the Citadel. Much of this difficulty was because she simply couldn't tear off her eyes. The strong, muscled thigh, the slight curve of his hipbone, faint scars here and there, the soft dusting of golden hair across his chest and abdomen... her face had to be flaming red, or so she guessed by how hot her cheeks felt.

The King of Rohan simply lifted one eyebrow and regarded her quizzically, and she knew he wasn't going to make this any easier for her if he could help it. In fact, he looked more annoyed by this disturbance than he was concerned about a woman making an appearance in his chamber while he was indecent. That he did not seem disconcerted by it, or wasn't attempting to cover himself more adequately, spoke in volumes. Oh, why did he have to be such a... a... a savage! The thought was a vicious one, and perhaps too harsh on him. However, until now he had given her little reason to try and like him as her father did. Even in that great feast after the king had returned, when Father had formally introduced her to the man, he had been just as unwelcoming and distant as before, though not quite as hostile as on the night after the battle.

"Well? Spit it out, will you, for I truly wish to hear what business you have in my bedchamber", he spoke at last, having lost his patience with her inability to form coherent sentences.

Lothíriel coughed and thought only very quickly of how much in trouble she would be once Father heard of this. Somehow she managed: "I was hiding from someone. I didn't know these rooms were, hmm, in use."

Rohan's king made a vague sound at the back of his throat. To her it sounded a lot like haughty snort. But she didn't get to dwell on that, because he finally put away his dagger and lay down on his side, supporting himself on his elbow. As he shifted – surprisingly smoothly for such a big and appalling man – she could not read the faintest trace of uneasiness on him. How could he just lay like that there, completely at ease even though he was only covered by a strip of sheet while a lady stared at him!

Silently she cursed herself and felt like just running out right now, but Lothíriel knew that was impossible. At least she owed him an explanation and an apology. Oh, Father would be furious with her!

"And why were you hiding?" asked the king of the horselords, regarding her with those unsettling eyes of his, so sharp and so cold, and she thought his soul had to be frozen – if he had one, that was. Still, she forced herself to meet his gaze, flushing and all. Now that she was looking directly at his face, she picked up things she hadn't noticed before: his unkempt beard, his red, puffy eyes and the shadows under them... the fragrance of flowers had masked it somewhat, but now she also detected the smell of old liquor.

 _He has been drinking, probably for the entire night, and doing Eru knows what else..._ a shiver of disgust went down her spine as she wondered how her kind, dignified, mild-mannered father could ever befriend such an uncouth troublemaker.

"There is this man", she said, trying to decide how to continue but not quite succeeding. Mostly because King Éomer apparently was in the mood of making her regret everything she said, or so she deemed by his expression. Once more he lifted his eyebrow, as he settled more comfortably against his elbow, and for a split second she was sure he was going to ask her to join him in the bed. _Merciful Elbereth, deliver me from this beast of a man!_

"Did you sneak into his chamber, too?" asked the insufferable man and reached for a flask on the table next to the bed. The sheet slipped and she looked quickly away; if her face had not been hot enough to melt a magic ring just moments before, it now surely was.

"I did not! And I would have explained and apologised to you, my lord, had you not made it clear that you are not a good or kind man!" she snapped, clinging on her annoyance and offence in order not to burst into tears. But even as reason told her to keep her eyes away from him, she could not help a quick little glance... and it was long enough to see that all signs of haughtiness and coldness had suddenly disappeared from him. Now the King of Rohan had sat up again, and he was staring at her with eyes that held not the faintest trace of their usual elusive reserve. She saw not a king, not a grim and cold man, or a drunken ruffian. Instead, she perceived a pair of eyes more sincere, more genuine, more vivacious than any other eyes she had ever beheld in her life.

"My lady -" he started, his voice soft and deep and sonorous...

She fled.

* * *

 _Emyn Arnen, Late June 3020_

"I thought you loved weddings."

The words of Lothíriel's sister-in-law, a small woman named Aredhel, made the Princess of Dol Amroth lift up her head sharply – too sharply, if she could read the other woman's face at all. She bit the inside of her cheeks to keep from cringing and giving Aredhel even more reason to think something was wrong.

"Of course I do", she replied, trying for lively but falling for monotonous. Once more she had to bite the inside of her mouth, but this time it was more as a punishment for her obvious discomfort. Hadn't she determined not to let anyone guess anything? To brave through this day with as happy a face as ever? However, her sister-in-law remained, as ever, a difficult woman to deceive. And judging by the frown on her face, she had known since the morning that Lothíriel was not enjoying the wedding of Faramir and Lady Éowyn like she ought to.

When she had been younger, Lothíriel had always loved weddings. The atmosphere, the splendour, all the happy people, the music... she guessed it was because for as long as she had been alive, the prospect of war and possibly utter ruin of her world had always loomed in the horizon. She had grown up in a family of warriors, and no matter how much her Father and Grandfather had tried to keep her in the dark, she had often picked up these tell-tale signs of battles fought against the many enemies that were gathering under the command of the Black Tower.

But even as times grew more grim, there were still weddings. For a few days, everyone would be happy and joyful, and there was comfort in the new life that sprung to being as a result. Now, she deemed, she should have been twice as glad, but as the day progressed and the inevitable approached, she could not feel delighted.

"Then what is wrong?" asked Aredhel – the wedding ceremony had taken place on a green hill near the house Faramir had built for his bride, and now they were walking back to that fair dwelling. Not far ahead, Lothíriel could see a head of thick gold hair, towering over most of the attendance as though a dark cloud to predict a storm.

Her sister-in-law spoke again, "Are you ill, Lothíriel?"

Quickly the younger woman shook her head. It wasn't like she could explain this, not at least without causing a proper scandal. And considering King Éomer had kept his silence all this time, although an entire year had passed since the unfortunate affair, she was not going to reveal her most mortifying secret. Why the horselord had chosen not to speak of it even to her father, Lothíriel could only wonder. Surely a man of his standing would have reported a brainless lady wandering into his chambers while he was sleeping! Surely he would demand a formal apology from her and her father! Surely he -

"You do look quite pale. Are you sure you're not sick? Perhaps you should go and lie down for a bit. It could be just this warm weather", Aredhel offered, oblivious to Lothíriel's troubled musings.

"No, I feel fine", she muttered. _Physically, at least. Even that's not guaranteed when I need to face him. I swear, if I accidentally throw up on him...!_

Her sister-in-law did not seem convinced, but at least she seemed to understand coaxing was of no use, and so she fell silent. The younger of the two women fixed her eyes somewhere in the forest, entertaining the idea of pleading sick after all. That would save her from meeting the King of Rohan...

She shook herself: postponing the inevitable was a stupid idea. She would have to meet the man sooner or later, and perhaps a few stiff but coolly polite words would reassure them both that whatever had happened on that morning a year ago was just... just...

"There you are, daughter", spoke the voice of her father as he came to her side and offered her his arm. Without thinking, she took it: there was always something incredibly comforting about his presence. Aredhel fell behind without a word to give the two some privacy, for which Lothíriel was silently thankful. One could always trust Aredhel's tact.

Looking down at her, he smiled, "You look very beautiful today, Lothíriel."

"Thank you, Father", she said and was able to give him a smile. It was a tiny one, but it was real.

"Faramir seems so happy – it is good to see him smile so. Yet I must admit during the ceremony, I was wondering if some time soon I might see that same expression on the face of one of my children", he said, glancing at her again. Father had never been very good at pretences, but she knew he meant well. At any rate, she looked at him wryly.

"I don't know about Erchirion or Amrothos, but with me you may rest assured. There is no marriage in my future, not in many years", she stated firmly. At least Lord Bellon was not invited, and so he wasn't here to try and convince her or her father otherwise.

"I take it none of the unmarried lords present caught your eye?" he asked – she did not miss how his eyes drifted to the tall blond figure of Rohirric king. Thankfully he was too far to hear this conversation... not that she believed it would have fascinated him. She suppressed a sigh, for she knew nothing would have delighted Father more than having that stupid golden-haired scoundrel for his son-in-law, though only the Powers might know what made him like the man so much.

"Father, if I change my mind, you will be the first to know", Lothíriel said and patted his arm. Now he let out a sheepish little laugh.

"Of course, daughter. I know you, and I know you require someone who matches you in spirit and will. It is a rare man that does", he said gently. A surge of affection washed over her and she looked at her father, knowing he would never use her for personal or political gain. Once more she wondered: _How can he be friends with_ that man _?_

They met Faramir and Lady Éowyn at the door of their new home. Both wore beaming smiles as they received their guests and welcomed them in, and often the pair would glance at each other with incredulous smiles. The White Lady was like a pale flower blooming in a blissful hour: her long hair was lighter than that of her brother, her eyes glimmered with the blue of the sky, and her white gown was like freshly fallen snow that was rimmed by sunlight. Quietly, not at first even aware that she was doing it, Lothíriel tried to search the face of the lady to see some resemblance between her and the King she named her brother. However, it was a difficult task, and the most she could name was how both stood tall and proud among the people around them. Though Lady Éowyn and her sibling both had the golden hair of the Rohirrim, she was light as he was dark... perhaps that was also true for their natures.

Once she and Father had congratulated the newly-wed pair, they stepped inside, and she expected to see the Rohirric king somewhere nearby. Surely Father would wish to exchange a few words with him, and he would insist she greet him, too? However, the man was nowhere to be seen. How could a man so outstanding just disappear like that?

Lothíriel allowed herself to relax a little bit. Perhaps King Éomer had decided to avoid her... she could understand it, considering their last meeting. She had not seen him since that day, though she had heard he often visited King Elessar in Minas Tirith. She had nearly lost her nerve when Father had said he had invited Rohan's king to stay in Dol Amroth, but for one reason or the other, the man never came. She had a fairly good idea of why that was.

The feast that followed was truly a memorable one – perhaps even more so than any other feast there had been ever since the fall of Sauron. Lothíriel found she rather loved the house Faramir had built, and felt wonder when he told her it had been designed to bear likeness both to Rohirric and Gondorian homes. After hearing that, she paid special attention to all the wood and warm colours in the house and understood these were sights brought here from the North.

Then, as though to answer to this thought, her eyes fell on the tall man at the other side of the hall. In the light of many candles the mane of gold shined, as though his hair had ensnared the very light in it. His long coat was dark green, decorated at collar and sleeves by patterns so complex one could have stared at the masterful handicraft for hours. Yet he wore no adornments: there was no crown upon his head, no rich golden brooches or chains to boast his station. And he needed them not, for he carried the very splendour of kings on his brow and shoulders. If the house of Faramir and Lady Éowyn had something northern about it, those little touches had nothing on the man who, at least in his appearance, seemed to embody the very land of Rohan.

Such were some of the sounds as well, especially when the music started, performed by a band of Rohirric musicians: a strange, lively tune filled the halls of the house, and it was unlike any music she had ever heard before. There was such history, such memory in that music! Despite herself, and perhaps because of the wine she had drank before, Lothíriel found herself patting the corners of her eyes. Even as she tried to wipe away the errant tears and looked around to see if anyone had noticed, she suddenly saw a pair of dark eyes regarding her. She took in breath as she felt the keen scrutiny of that gaze and thought to see the same cold and appalling expression as the last time, but instead she thought he seemed curious somehow... and uncertain, too. However, it was too sharp for her to bear, and without thinking she turned, slipped through the crowd and then outside... into the fragrant evening of June.

Outside, it was already getting dark and the first stars were ignited in the sky, shining like a million diamonds. The courtyard of the house was lit by several fires and some of the guests had gathered there, drawn out by the warm summer night. It was a lovely evening with all the sweet fragrances in the air, and Lothíriel felt no urge to go back inside any time soon. The woods of Ithilien were in bloom still, though the summer was growing older. But this was a fair land and good, and she thought the hands of the Elves lead by Prince Legolas had already brought some blessing here. It would be a good place for dwelling, both for Faramir and the Lady Éowyn... and suddenly, for a reason she could not name, Lothíriel felt so envious of their happiness she could barely breathe.

 _Stop it at once. What reason do you have to complain?_

To put aside that entirely irrational feeling, Lothíriel decided to take a stroll through the holdings of the house. After such a noisy and crowded day it felt good to be alone for a while, if only to make sure she wouldn't appear teary-eyed when she went back inside. As she walked, she brushed a hand across her eyes; some tears still remained. She grimaced to herself, wondering what it was about wine that always made her so sentimental. Certainly she was not going to have any more as far as this night went.

The fresh air cleared her head, much to her satisfaction. She felt better as she wandered the surroundings of her cousin's house. Well, it wasn't just his anymore, not now that he had a wife. Lothíriel thought of the famous lady Faramir had married, and while she could not say she really knew Lady Éowyn, she did perceive the woman was every bit worthy of the praise she had got for her deeds. Beyond that, she could not say much about the lady's character, except for her observation that this Rohirric Shieldmaiden was just as reserved as her brother the King of horselords. The difference between those two siblings seemed to be that Lady Éowyn did not hide a hideous personality behind her reticent countenance.

Lothíriel shook her head to get rid of these fairly unpleasant musings, and noticed she had come to the other side of the house. She saw a wide field of upturned earth and quickly realised what this was. In his letters, Faramir had told her how he had prepared this place for his new wife, so that she could plant a garden there and fill their home with all things that grew. He had sounded so happy and excited, much to her joy. If anyone deserved happiness it was her dear cousin. Yet even so, she had to wonder why it was this Rohirric maiden he had chosen as his bride. In the presence of Faramir's Amrothian kin, she had always been polite but remote, sometimes even cold. But perhaps Faramir was able to bring out parts of her she did not show to people she hardly knew... and maybe she would warm up in this place, where none of the cold northern winds would touch the sunny woodlands. Not to mention, her aunt Ivriniel had said no one who was interested in gardening could be anything but a decent person.

The princess smiled slightly and breathed in the air of the evening. In it mixed the sweet scents of the wood and the smell of newly upturned earth. Perhaps it was odd for a lady born and bred by the shores of the sea, but she found she rather liked this smell... it was as though the very earth held the promise of things that might grow here, the beauty that could be summoned by the care of hard-working hands.

A sudden impulse came to her, and she slipped off her dainty little slippers. She gathered the hems of her blue dress in her hands and then stepped into the dark, fresh earth with bare feet. Oddly enough, the feeling of soil pushing through between her toes gave her a similar sense of pleasure as the soft sand on the beaches of her home would.

Holding up her gown and smiling to herself, she trudged through the mounds of soil. Her smile only widened when she thought how horrified Aredhel would be if she saw her young sister-in-law now. But none needed to know: once she went back, she would wash her feet in the stables, and then return inside as though nothing had happened.

In her mind's eye, she imagined how this place would look like when green things were growing here, and she wondered if Faramir and Lady Éowyn would like her to visit some time. Not any time soon after the wedding, though – like any recently married couple, they would probably want some peace and privacy for a while.

Lost in her thoughts she went on, enjoying this fair night and the feeling of being so close to life-giving things. She could hear the sounds of the wedding feast and many voices talking and laughing, yet she was completely content in having no company. At least for the moment it was for the better she was alone, because no doubt it would seem peculiar that Imrahil's daughter should be skipping barefeet in newly turned soil. The thought made her laugh softly under her breath.

But even as she was still laughing to herself, she suddenly became aware of the feeling like she was being watched. Hair at the nape of her neck stood up and she turned swiftly, almost losing her footing in the process. And there, at the edge of what would be a garden one day, stood the figure of a man... holding her slippers in his hands.

The shadows of the evening sucked out most of the colour and covered his face, but she did not need to see him clearly in order to know him. Who else would stand so tall, or claim space around him in such a way?

For the longest moment neither of them spoke. Instead, they stood silently staring at each other... she could not see much of his eyes or his face in this shadowy hour, but she could feel his gaze on her, and was sure he knew she was staring right back at him. What should she do or say? He held her slippers in his hands, so she had no way of returning to the feast without speaking to him, unless she went barefeet. Should she explain why she was jumping around in soil, or just let him make his own assumptions, paying no heed to what he might think?

At last King Éomer broke the silence: "My lady Princess."

The sound of his voice took her by surprise. It was not cold or mocking or haughty – rather, his voice resonated deep and rich, even friendly. She was so taken aback that at first she could not even respond, and when she did, she could not hide her reaction.

"M-my lord", she said thinly. She was pressing the hems of her gown inside her hands, her grip so tight that she was sure to wrinkle the fabric. Forcing to steel herself, she spoke again, sounding resolute this time, "What can I help you with?"

"I was hoping to talk with you, my lady", he said and she had to wonder, for who would have guessed he could speak so softly? She had thought everything about him was loud and discordant, like he were an instrument badly out of tune. After a pause, he went on, "I wanted to explain myself. And to apologise, if I may."

Lothíriel blinked once, then twice. Now he wanted to apologise! This man was... he just... what was she supposed to think of him? She had taken him for a cold, unpleasant man – barely capable of understanding the idea of good manners, and certainly too wild to be called civilised. Yet now he spoke as a gentleman might, but with such plain honesty she had never heard in any nobleman's voice.

She then remembered he was still waiting for an answer. And... well, he was being very civil. Perhaps she should give him a chance, if only for her father's sake.

"Very well", Lothíriel spoke, managing to keep her voice clear and stark. She then began to make way back to the edge of the upturned field, giving only brief consideration to all that her aunt had said about meeting men she didn't know all alone in dark places. On the other hand, Aunt Ivriniel needn't know this was really very mild compared to the last time she had spoken with King Éomer.

When she was just about to step on the grass, she lost her footing and fell. However, a hand caught her and steadied her once more, and she could feel the strength of that limb... well, she had heard of the things he had done in the Battle of Pelennor fields, and such deeds were not something people with fragile or clumsy hands were capable of at all.

"Thank you", she mumbled in growing embarrassment. Suddenly, all she could think of was how early morning's light had made his bare skin look like... the length of his body resting on white sheets...

 _Sweet Elbereth, I'm so glad it's night and he can't see my face!_

He offered her the slippers, which she took with another muffled "thank you", but she did not slip them on – there was no sense in ruining them with her stained feet. For a little while more, the awkward silence hovered between them, and then the King of Rohan cleared his throat.

"My lady, I realise I have acted very rudely each time we have met in the past", he started slowly, and there was still no trace of anything that was unpleasant or unfriendly. "In my defence, I was not at my best then, and my sister says I'm not an easy man to deal with even in better days."

He let out a sigh and she sensed there was some dark thought on his mind, but Lothíriel did not know if she should say something, or just let him move through this in peace. When he spoke again, his voice became darker and less soft, but it was still everything but rude.

"The first time you saw me was after the Battle of Pelennor Fields. I imagine you know Théoden King, my predecessor, died that day. My lady, I cannot explain in words the grief his loss caused to me, but I will try. You see, my sister and I were orphaned while we were still children, and Théoden took us in – loved us like we were his own. So, that day I did not only lose my uncle, but also a father", he explained. In the shadows, she could see him shaking his head. He went on then, and she could practically hear the grimace in his voice, "When I arrived at the Citadel with your lord father, I was under the impression I would have to bury more than just one family member. For Éowyn my sister took part in battle, and though she won great renown, she was badly injured. When I looked upon her on the battlefield, she seemed to have died. It was only afterwards, when I had come to pay my respects to Théoden, that I heard she was still alive. I have no other family left now."

Lothíriel breathed in and out, trying to hold back her shock. She had not even guessed what a tragedy it had been for him... well, up until the point he had found his sister alive, at least. But even then grief must have cut deep. If she had lost her father or one of her brothers in the battle... she dared not even think of it, though at the time it had been an entirely valid concern.

"I am sorry for your loss, my lord", she was able to speak, wishing there might have been more light that she could see his expression, or perhaps more comfort in the words she could give him. This revelation did surely explain their previous meetings somewhat, but more to be said remained still.

"Thank you, my lady. He rests peacefully now", King Éomer stated curtly, and she realised he did not wish to dwell on that topic any longer.

He then offered her his arm, "Shall we walk, my lady?"

"Of course", she replied and gingerly placed her hand on his forearm. Steady and solid it was, like a rock standing against the rage of waves. She stole a glance of his face, on which moonlight fell in silver beams, and wondered if she had judged him wrongly. This was starting to look like more and more likely.

After they had walked for a while, he began to talk again.

"I do not have much of an excuse to the second time we met. I know I should have treated you more respectfully when your father introduced us... it is simply I had met many ladies that night, and there were several of them who found me interesting only for one reason. I know it was unfair of me to expect the same of you, my lady – knowing your father, one should not make such assumptions", said the King of Rohan; in the dim light, she could see he was gazing ahead. Lothíriel nodded quietly to herself and knew this too she could forgive him. His cold manners in the feast they had met officially was now easily explained... maybe she should have realised already what it meant to be a young unmarried king in the middle of a court full of ladies, some of whom might never have a chance of finding a husband. Just because her connections made her a desirable bride to many lords wishing to gain power and wealth did not mean other ladies of the realm were as fortunate.

Another silence had fallen, but this time it was her to interrupt it. This was the question she really wanted an answer for, because not a day had passed that she had not felt embarrassment about what had happened the last time she had seen this man.

"My lord, what about the... the time last August?" she inquired in a careful voice. Now King Éomer let out a wry little snort.

"Yes, _that",_ he said half-audibly, and when he spoke, there was no denying the sincerity of his words. "Your timing was most unfortunate, my lady... you happened on me on the very next morning after my arrival in Mundburg. There is much that was wrong with me then, you see... Rohan has suffered much in the years before war and there is great need among my people – many of them have lost their homes, their husbands and sons, their very livelihoods. This past year has seen some healing, but there is still much to be done. As a result, the first few months of my rule were a nightmare, and then I returned into the White City to bring back the body of my uncle. I spent most of that first night sitting next to him. Call me weak if you will, but I could not do it without the help of some liquor. So, by the time you happened in my chamber, I was still drunk – and still very bitter about a lot of things."

For the longest time, Lothíriel did not know what to say. She was too stunned, too embarrassed to think anything except for how wrongly she had judged this man. How eager she had been to blame him! Perhaps he had been rude with her, but she had erred just as well. Yes, she was guilty too: she should know better than to assess people by face value.

But then, as she was still wallowing in guilt and self-accusations, King Éomer suddenly stopped beside her. She did too, mostly because of his example. Realising how close he stood she felt breathless... she could even see his face now, the soft glimmer of his dark eyes. Lothíriel felt amazed, for now she met a warm, friendly gaze. In the light of his eyes she became even more aware of how wrong she had been about him.

"I would like to apologise for my behaviour, my lady. I was rude and ill-tempered, and you deserve better, both as a lady and as a daughter of my friend. If it would please you, I would like to ask for another chance, Princess Lothíriel", he said, and once more his voice was that soft, sonorous kind that had been haunting her heart and mind ever since the last time she had seen him.

"I'm sorry too, my lord", she hurried to say, lest her ability to speak disappeared altogether. "I was wrong to judge you so harshly when I did not even know you... and I'm truly sorry for wandering into your rooms in such a way. It was stupid and I shouldn't have done that – I was just..." she spoke speedily and the words collided in her fast delivery. King Éomer lifted his eyebrows, which was not a mocking expression in the slightest this time, and she took a deep breath before continuing her account. How could he explain himself so clearly and coherently, when she was nearly reduced to blathering dullard once more?

"You see, there has been this young lord wooing me, and he is very insistent, though I have told him no repeatedly. On that morning I was in the Citadel and he was there too...so, I did not really wander into your room. I was just running short of ways of rejecting him, and in my desperation I sought shelter in the chambers assigned to you. It was not my intention to spy on you or anything of the sort, my lord", she explained, managing to speak in a more lucid fashion at last.

A slow smile spread on the face of the King Éomer. How nice, how gentle he looked now! This change from a cold, unfriendly scoundrel with ill manners to a warm and cordial man was so extreme, it was hard to comprehend. This observation might have only deepened her embarrassment for her earlier scornful judgement of him, but his following words prevented her thoughts from turning towards that direction.

"My lady, I understand better than you might have guessed", he said, his voice heart-felt. Of course he would, she realised and felt sheepish. To have one stubborn suitor? That was one thing. But to have an entire line of bride candidates, all of whom were mostly interested in what _you_ could give and paying very little attention to the question on what _they_ had to offer... that was another matter entirely. In all fairness, she had very little to complain about. And she – well, perhaps she _had_ been the very image of a cunning, greedy vulture hunting for a crown, what with the way she had sneaked into his very bedchamber.

Once again her cheeks heated up and she looked down, her eyes wandering around his boot-clad feet in the grass, but then a gentle pair of fingers touched her chin as though in an invitation to look up. If any other man had dared to touch her so, Lothíriel might have bitten his fingers, just to make clear her point. However, after one has seen a man in his birth attire, certain boundaries simply cease to exist. And there was something about this horselord that made such a gesture the most natural thing in the world.

"Princess Lothíriel, if you ever again need shelter from your unwanted suitor, and if I happen to be nearby, I would be honoured to provide assistance. You are welcome to take shelter in my chambers, or whatever you need at the time. That is the least I can do after treating you so monstrously", he said, his voice firm and resolute, as though he was promising her something far more serious. And perhaps he was. Lothíriel quickly understood: in his words, there was an offer of friendship, just as there was in the palm of his hand, which he was offering to her.

At last she had to smile, too. No more explanations needed to be made, and no more hard feelings remained between them. Knowing this made her feel like she had laid down a burden she had not known to have carried, and relief washed over her in powerful waves – so powerful that instead of accepting his hand she nearly threw her arms around him in a fierce, joyful, thankful hug.

 _No wonder Father likes him so... no wonder they call him a hero and a great man. I was wrong, so wrong, and I'm glad that I was._

And, with a smile on her face, she placed her hand in his.

 _The End._


End file.
